


The Catastrophe of My Personality

by gloss



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Poe's a disaster, Porn With Sads In, Porn with Feelings, Public Blow Jobs, Size Kink, Slurp Ramps, Xenophilia, a beautiful disaster though, relationship angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6625273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the cockpit or on his knees, this is Poe's rhythm: intense focus, life-or-death stakes, then back to the long empty boredom of waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Catastrophe of My Personality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlehuntress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehuntress/gifts).



> Thanks very much to my beta for helping me make this halfway decent.

...waiting for   
the catastrophe of my personality  
to seem beautiful again,  
and interesting – Frank O'Hara, "[Mayakovsky](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/53219)"

 

After the evening meal, Poe takes a stroll. Hands in his pockets, just ambling around. He knows where he's headed, but there's no hurry.

They're back on Takodana, helping Maz rebuild. The resistance shuttles in volunteers as it can, then recalls them when needed, so the population is in enormous, constant flux. You'd be forgiven for not knowing whether _you_ were coming or going, let alone if so-and-so was also here. Some live in the undamaged parts of the castle; others sleep rough in the complex of tents and huts just past the forest.

In the chaos, a strange, hectic kind of society has been thrown up. Even more harried than life back on base - if that were possible - social relations are quick, fragile things, but not insincere for that. Some flames burn bright and hot before winking out, while others take a long while to catch, only to burn steadily, dependably, for hours.

Life here is definitely the first kind.

Tonight it's even more crowded than usual. Another shuttle of volunteers arrived just before the meal; it'll be departing with those going back on duty on base in a few hours. Everywhere he goes, frantic goodbyes and surprised hellos resound.

He speeds up, heading into one of the castle's sub-basements. In the distant past, it was probably a main floor, but Takodana is a wet, verdant place, and everything's sinking.

He makes his way through the maze of rooms and twisting passages to the back. Down here, it is so dark that even his hand before his face is a mere hypothesis, gray and flimsy.

Along one rough, uneven wall, there's a small dais less than a meter off the ground, fronted by a low wall. He slips into the space between dais and wall, working his way down the row, until he finds a gap in the crowd.

Bodies on the dais above loom, almost completely indiscernible aside from a certain thickening to the texture of the dark.

Given how busy it is, he was lucky to nab a spot tonight. He's two, maybe three, people from the far end. For now, he's leaning back against the low wall, waiting. Drumming fingers on his thighs, not thinking about very much at all.

That's at least half the appeal, maybe most of it, of this place, the not-thinking. He spaces out, listening to grunts and moans, squelches and spit-takes. Without vision, without anything near actual language, all that's left is noise and smell (and, later, taste). They rise up, drown him, carry him away. 

The guy next to Poe is, it sounds like, doing a great job, having a great time. His moans are steady and enthusiastic. He has one hand braced on the banister before him to slow his back and forth rocking. He goes still, a rumbly breath wheezing on the inhale, then moaning all over again, much more loudly, as the guy he's sucking comes. The cock pops out, wetly, loudly, and splatters his face and hand.

Some lands on Poe's wrist, too.

"Need some help?" Poe asks, low and rough. You don't talk too much down here. When you do, you keep it simple, easy to ignore.

"Huh? I'm fine," his neighbor replies. He shuffles back a little, letting his head fall back - Poe thinks so, anyway; this is all guesswork, with orgasm the only certainty - and breathing deep.

Poe licks his wrist clean and checks what's on offer before him. 

"But thanks," the neighbor adds, touching Poe's shoulder lightly.

"Anytime." 

Someone shuffles into place above him - human, smells like fresh, general-issue soap - and Poe tips his head, closing his eyes and licking his lips. There's no preamble, no intricate dance or game of sabacc, just an invitation - thrust forward - and acceptance or not - open up his mouth or back away.

Poe always accepts. 

He rolls the head between his lips, works up a good amount of spit, and pushes farther forward.

The cock throbs between his cheeks, along his tongue, and now he really does drown in sensation, exactly as he'd hoped to. There's the dark, there are the close, indistinct sounds of heartbeat and saliva, creaking boots, balls nudging and slapping his chin, and there's _nothing else_. Outside of the cockpit, it is impossible to reach this focus anywhere else. The dark and the closeness embrace him, move with him, as he grips the guy's knees and pushes all the way down, swallows a couple times, and hears a long, appreciative groan.

When you don't know someone, you can give them everything you have. 

As the dick starts to tremble and jitter, Poe pulls up, milking the head with lips and tongue, working it hard, until the guy grunts and shoves his hand into Poe's hair, pushing him off just far enough, then holding him in place, jerking himself, coming.

"Fuck, man —" 

The guy vanishes as quickly as he'd appeared. Coming down, Poe rests his head against the nearest upright on the riser, wiping his mouth. The intensity always wracks him, but it's the aftereffects that really do him in. Switching from everything to nothing, filled to empty, just like that, is vertiginous.

This is exactly what battle is like - waiting, focusing, then the sudden exhilaration followed a long drain. This is his rhythm, always will be. However long he's got left, this is how it'll go.

"You okay?" His neighbor touches him again. That's...not usual, not back here, but it isn't unwelcome, either.

"Yeah, I'm —" He stops, breathing out, finding his equilibrium again as the hand on him slips up to the back of his neck and squeezes gently. "I'm great. You?"

There's a general impression of a body there. Just a shift to the dark, a displacement of air as he chuckles. Usually Poe equally values the silence and the solitude here, being an invisible point, open or closed, full or empty, amidst the noise and need. These small gestures of camaraderie are lovely, however, when they do occur. Tiny flowers on cold-weather lichen, a little extra, a little brave and beautiful for that.

"Okay, I'm —. More than okay." He squeezes Poe's neck one more time, then moves away, out of sight if not out of reach.

There's no real sense of time down here. There are heartbeats, and the ever-shifting population, and the perfectly straightforward chronology of orgasm, but nothing that can be added up to mark the passage of time.

He takes a Rodian, spongy forked dick and come that tastes like kelp and salt, and another human, or humanoid, before his neighbor edges back.

"Hey? Uh —" he whispers, but there's laughter in his tone, even on the single syllables. That sound is familiar, warming. "Help?" 

Poe leans over. The cock before his neighbor is, pretty conclusively, the largest he has ever seen in person. He estimates its size based on what he can make out - a head the size of two men's fists, hanging nearly to where others' knees would be.

"Yeah, let me help," Poe says. No one can work that alone, but it also shouldn't be declined. Something this outsized and well-formed ought to be _celebrated_ , in prose and song, dance and holo. "Wow."

He slides in a bit behind the neighbor, one arm around his waist, and leans over the guy's near shoulder. 

"Ready?" the guy asks, hushed, but still, somehow, _amused_. Poe nods, hears his stubble rasp the man's soft skin. 

He's about ninety percent sure this is Finn, leaning in tandem with him, humming a little under his breath as their tongues slide around the throbbing head.

The idea of that, of who this is, sparks a new torrent of pleasure along his already glowing, overworked nerves.

He doesn't want to check, can't bear to find out, not yet. The uncertainty is what matters right now. He comes here for the dark, not for anything definitive.

They move well together, one of Poe's legs slotted between maybe-Finn's; their shoulders and waists form a hinge along which they fan open and closed around the dick. If this is Finn, then of course they move well together; they always have, right from the get-go. They were always so much better at _acting_ and anticipating what the other needed than they would ever prove to be at _talking_ through such matters, let alone more serious issues. Anything that can't be blasted or flown through or kicked really hard qualifies as serious.

The person they're servicing thrusts forward, rocking in, then pulling back, and Poe and his partner chase after, tongues lolling, spit spilling. This is the sweetest part, working so hard, losing himself in the simplest motion, where the slightest gesture becomes as large, as significant, as any declaimed soliloquy. He and his partner bump chins, kiss a little, sloppily, sliding in opposite directions (Poe forward, maybe-Finn backward), then meet back at the head. No one man can get his lips all the way around it, but together, they work up a fairly serviceable seal.

All this is created on the fly, jury-rigged enthusiastically if not particularly thoughtfully. Poe feels the other man kiss him, darting tongue and a smack of lips as his arm tightens around Poe's waist. They make a decent team.

This is a dance, maybe even a profound one.

When the guy speeds up, shoving hips forward and grabbing at their heads, Poe moans, a little helplessly. The man's hand - his _paw?_ \- palms Poe's skull so easily, crushably easily. Blunt claws digs into Poe's scalp and hold him in place.

There's no need to resist, no call to put up even the most perfunctory objection. 

He's here, isn't he? Just showing up means he will get what he wants and needs.

His jaws ache; his lips hurt, especially at the corners, stretched so far open that they could tear; spit soaks his chin and neck just as tears from the exertion slick his lashes. He has become the ring his mouth makes. His partner, maybe Finn, maybe not, slips his hand up the back of Poe's shirt, rubs his back, then walks his fingers down Poe's spine, under his waistband. They flex against the top of his ass. It's probably reflexive, nothing personal.

They're both making noise now, a lot of it, commensurate with what they're sucking. His partner lets that strained, enthusiastic groan go, throbbing in time with the dick against their lips, while Poe hears his own, creakier, needier, moan leak and break out the corners of his lips. Maybe it's rising from his pores, seeking any escape, desperately. When the cock shudders up, down, and shoots, Poe shouts, claws in his hair, hand on his ass, falling forward to finish the job, see it out, _do his best_ , get what he's come for.

Finn - of course it's Finn, there shouldn't have been any doubt - holds him up, both arms around Poe now, as the come douses them. He keeps holding on, arms looped around Poe's waist, kissing him. The guy withdraws, leaving puddles at their feet, soaked shirts, ripped-up scalps, in his wake.

Finn's kiss is gentle on the painful parts, tiny licks and sucks at the corners of Poe's lips, then deeper at the center, around his tongue, up against his palate. He's humming again, happily contented, rocking their hips together. The come on their faces is going tacky, sticking them together and stretching in thick strings when they move apart.

"Need to wash up," Finn says. 

Poe can only nod, take his hand and weave their way back out through the dark, around bodies and through noise-scent-taste.

He finds an unoccupied cell down a short passage, with a basin of fairly clean water and a few large towels, or small blankets, folded on the shelf above.

"You okay?" Finn asks, but Poe shakes his head, soaking half a towel in the water before wiping Finn's face clean. He runs the towel down Finn's throat, watching his head fall back, working the hollow of his clavicle.

"Need to —" Finn doesn't finish the statement, just slides down the wall until he's sitting on the floor, one knee up, the other leg kicked out. Poe kneels next to him, running the towel over his face one more time. Finn turns into each touch, his eyes closed, his mouth closed but curved into a smile.

"Sleepy?" Poe says, rising a little creakily to soak the other half of the towel and scrub his own face clean. He stops, though, settling just for washing his hands and rinsing out his mouth. He stinks, and can't help rolling his upper lip up against his nose to smell himself.

"Nah. Little woozy," Finn says. "It'll pass."

This sort of conversation - brief, factual - they can usually handle. Poe hands him the dipper full of water and Finn drinks gratefully. He sloshes the last sip around his mouth, then spits.

Poe crouches nearby, twisting the towel in his hands. He has a routine for these visits - suck his fill, jerk off, then get going. It's getting away from him, however.

"Come here often?" Finn asks. His eyebrows jump up as if he just now heard what he'd said, and he laughs, shaking his head, waving Poe away. "Sorry, that was dumb."

"Nah," Poe says, rising, pressing the towel against his face. He leans against the basin and looks out the narrow slit in the wall, the window to the darkness of the forest. It's half-covered with dirt. "I mean, no, not dumb. Yes, often."

"Yeah," Finn replies, suddenly very close, _right behind_ Poe. He touches Poe's neck again, then his shoulder. "Figured. Um."

Anticipating what the other needs, how to work together, that's what they were always so good at. So maybe it isn't a surprise to anyone, except Poe, that Finn's kissing him again, shallow, soft, hardly any pressure, turning Poe to lean back against the wall, then pressing against him. One hand on Poe's neck, the other on his waist, under his shirt again, gently squeezing.

"You figured?" Poe manages to ask. 

He isn't _that_ obvious, he didn't think. Maybe he is. Obviously he is. Finn just shakes his head, not even dignifying the question with an answer, and kisses him harder, opening up Poe's mouth, grinding against his crotch.

"Hoped, let's say," Finn says eventually. He's breathing a lot harder now, and the skin on his face is hot against Poe's mouth. His hand is caught as far as it can go below Poe's waistband; the fingers spread and reach like stalks in a wind. "Definitely hoped."

"That's —" Poe thrusts up hard when Finn stops kissing him to drop down to his knees, both hands on Poe's waist now, fumbling at his fly. "Finn, come on, you don't have to do that —"

 _Hoped_. He tries to picture Finn finding this place, checking it out, looking for Poe. Looking, why? Hoping for what? How long did he get distracted by sampling what was on offer? Tonight? A week? Poe doesn't even know how long Finn's been here on the ground.

"Want to," Finn says, almost curtly, shaking his head. This is the kind of response Poe has become a lot more used to getting: impatient, even a little disbelieving of the shit he has to listen to and put up with. "Why is that so —. Forget it."

Maybe Poe will, later, but he can't forget anything now, not as Finn pushes his mouth down his aching cock, just so efficient and authoritative, so _good_ , familiar and missed. Poe strokes at Finn's hair, relearning its velvety, springy texture - it's slightly longer these days - then touches the shell of his ear, the sensitive spot behind his earlobe. Finn flutters his cheeks around Poe's shaft, beats his tongue against its underside, then wraps it almost all the way around and _swallows_ , right there, deep. Maybe Finn's gaze flickers up to find his, but Poe's looking up, up into the dark, feeling and receiving and rocking so close to coming that he can't stay quiet.

"Finn, _baby_ , I —" He shoves his fist into his mouth to _shut the **fuck** up_ before he forgets everything and just breaks apart. But Finn palms his ass, hauling him forward until only Poe is tilted sharply, only his shoulders still against the wall. Finn's throat works faster than a heartbeat, swallowing him down and down, moaning like this is good for him, too.

The orgasm whipcracks through Poe, down his spine, out the center of his dick, everything spasming and flying apart. He thrusts again and again, well after he's empty, long past the point of painful sensitivity, loath to stop, to pull out, turn off.

Finn runs his hands up and down Poe's thighs, fast, then slowing down, dragging friction and calm through the hair, into the muscle. Finally, ready to weep at the pain, Poe pulls out, and Finn lets him, just drops open his jaw and remains still.

Poe knuckles dry his eyes - mostly sweat, he's sure - then swipes his hand over his mouth and chin, before dropping down, back on his knees, before Finn. He tucks himself back into his trousers gingerly, then looks over at Finn.

"Need a hand, old pal?" he asks, and tries a grin, a cocky-but-friendly one, to accompany the quick grab-and-squeeze on Finn's fly.

Finn blinks, then inclines forward, kissing him again, slipping his arm around Poe's neck, coming ever closer. His mouth is as sour as it is soft. "You," he whispers, hoarse but unmistakably firm. "Just need you."

Poe could vanish right now. He's been leaving, venturing out into the dark, never looking back, long before they ever met. That's his rhythm. That's his trajectory, falling away, alone.

"I can't," he starts but Finn kisses him quiet. Pushes his fingers into the back of Poe's hair and tugs a little, shaking him like a silly pet.

"Try."

Poe _did_ try. He thought he'd been trying with all his heart, everything he had, and it still wasn't enough. Falling short, again and again, disappointing Finn until there wasn't any fondness left _to_ disappoint.

He'd worn it all away. Finn was as surprised as he was to find the smooth granite base left when patience and kindness have departed.

Poe bends his head, opening Finn's fly, taking his cock out, stroking it, slicking pre-come down its sides. Finn kisses the side of Poe's neck, the hollow of his jaw, the soft meat there under fragile skin. Lip in his teeth, concentrating, Poe shifts upward. He kicks one leg free of his pants - they snag on his boot, then come out - and straddles Finn's knees, reaching behind to open himself.

"Poe, you —"

He shakes his head. Finn gets it, quickly, and nods, giving him two fingers to suck wet before pushing Poe's hand away and opening him much more gently, patiently. How he can be gentle and firm at the same time, kind even as he stretches his fingers apart and twists until Poe gasps and shudders, is always going to be a mystery.

"More," Poe tells him, arm tight around Finn's neck, so tight. "Give me more, I —"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Finn's whispering, kissing him again like this is good, like Poe deserves this, and when he slips his fingers out, Poe chokes on the moan, then shouts it twice as loud at the pressure of Finn's cockhead. Finn kisses his eyelids, the tip of his nose, his mouth as he gets both hands on Poe's waist. Finn pulls him down, hard, as he shoves up. "Got you."

He _does_ , always did, filling Poe past the point of bearing, so deep and wide and complete, nova-hot and implacably strong that Poe cries into Finn's mouth, against his tongue, and flings one hand back, fingers scrabbling against the masonry, to try to control the motion.

Finn takes his hand back, wrapping it around his neck to match Poe's other one, then fucks upward, deeper, holding Poe in place as he _surges_ further and further up and never seems to come down.

"How many have you sucked? In one night," Finn asks, thrusting, rocking, making Poe ride him like something small and flimsy and needful, exactly what he is. "Know you keep track. What's the record?"

Poe used to keep track of everything: kills, hits, misses, crashes, conquests, even puns. BB-8's malapropisms. Dates with Finn. _Love you_ s, then _leave me be_ s. He might never understand, but he sure as hell would have the data.

When he shakes his head, sweat flies off the ends of his hair. "I don't know —"

Finn pushes up, then stops. Poe is stretched so far upward, his knees are barely touching the floor, his toes curling painfully against the inside of his boots. 

"Eight," Poe says, bearing down on Finn, fucking back without outwardly moving. Finn's panting, listening, his fingers digging into Poe's hips. "Not a night, though. Afternoon."

Finn groans into his mouth, licking him like he can taste them, sucking them all over again. Soon he's thrusting so quick and ragged, almost blindly, that Poe's just bouncing on it, well past being able to do anything but ride.

Poe is ground down, a scrap of skin wrapped taut around some nerves, and even that is wearing away. He's been falling in place for so long he's almost used to the descent, falling through himself, kilometer after kilometer, parsecs on parsecs, falling, never hitting.

"You." Finn tries to shake his head, but Poe's clinging to his neck so tightly that all he can do is rub his face against Poe's. Poe kisses him, pours out, and down, twisting at the waist, fucking back, until Finn's moaning and can't stop.

"Me what?" 

"Fuck." Finn closes both hands on the lower curve of Poe's ass and pulls him even farther open as he goes up on his knees. His face is twisted, beautiful, as he fucks so hard, so fast, that Poe's shoulders are pushed against the wall. Bouncing and scraping, shaking all over, he is held up entirely by Finn's hands and dick. "Fuck. _You_."

It could be a curse, but he says it so brokenly, and hungrily, kissing the words against Poe's own tongue, that maybe it's something more, too. Double entendre, ambivalence, quantum uncertainty.

Poe lets it be, foregoes chasing down a definition, just bounces and jolts, riding out Finn's orgasm, getting pumped full, writhing for more. Begging for it; he doesn't know certainty, but Finn always did. He always knew what Poe wanted and what he'd get. Even when he consistently overestimated what Poe _deserved_ , he was always sure. Generous to a fault.

They are all sinking, overcome by the softness of moss, the inexorable downward motion of water seeking its level. Carrying away detail and objection, feeding the roots only to get drawn up again, then flung back down.


End file.
